imaginethisgalaxy

[imaginethisgalaxy]

hi friends,

after a lot of consideration, i’m shutting down the blog here on tumblr, and any future content i write for star wars will be over on my ao3 pseud, under the same name.

i simply don’t have the kind of audience i would like here on tumblr (i’m not one of those people who can write in a vacuum; i like feedback and interaction, so i’ve been struggling to find motivation when that’s not there), and if i’m honest, a lot of the fandom has been very hard to be in since tros came out. in order to continue to love star wars the way i have since i was five years old and manage my own expectations about feedback and interaction, i’m permanently shifting away from tumblr for writing star wars fic.

i can’t promise any kind of frequency or volume of content. truth be told, i’m enjoying a break to reset, refocus and revisit some of the legends content i’ve loved over the years, so i don’t know when things will come back. i still want to write hemostasis (i’ve had the overarching narrative for kallus and the good doctor written for what feels like forever), i’d still love to produce one-shots when i can, and i’ll continue supporting great writers in the fandom here on tumblr. but when i do find the space to be participative again, it won’t be here.

again, please visit me on ao3 -- i would love to have you there. 

all the best to everyone who has ever followed, liked or reblogged my content, and i hope you’re taking care of yourselves.

cheers,

starling

[imaginethisgalaxy]

Listen. I have never been a fan of "imagines" / x reader stories. But maybe that's because I have never read any that are as well written as yours. I'm in the process of watching Rebels and fell down a tumblr hole that lead me to your Kallus x reader fic 'Homeostasis'. Damn. I have no words. It's so beautifully written. I loved the plot, the emotions, everything!! (Also I'm a nurse irl so I appreciate the accuracy of the medical parts of this story).

this is honestly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me? holy shit?? i’m dying???

really though, thank you so, so much. there are lots of really talented writers in this fandom who put out tons of great content, so that you managed to find mine and enjoy it so much is a huge compliment, and it really means a lot.

i have bits and pieces of more of them written, but it’s hard to work on when it feels like nobody’s out there who will enjoy it! so thank you for taking the time to drop me a line, really.

[imaginethisgalaxy]

non-sexual forms of intimacy.   send me ‘INTIMACY +’ a number between 1-125 and i’ll write a starter or a drabble about our muses engaging in a form of intimacy outside of sexual context.   note: as the level of trust required for the things listed here varies a lot, feel free to send multiple numbers if you aren’t sure if they’ll work! bonus:   if the mun is comfortable with randomising a number if asked, state so in the tags when you reblog!

1        watching tv/movies together

2        going to an event together  ( like a carnival, festival, etc. )

3        going on dates, like to the movies or shopping

4        sharing secrets

5        hugs

6        sharing drinks

7        having a phone call

8        touching noses

9        cuddling

10      having a philosophical discussion

11      hand holding

12      sharing jokes

13      sharing smiles

14      laying your head on someone’s shoulder

15      linking arms

Keep reading

[imaginethisgalaxy]

have you watched sw: resistance?

Yes! I enjoy it a lot. :) October can’t come soon enough, although I’m sad we’re only getting one more season.

[imaginethisgalaxy]

Hello! I am so glad that you’re back :) I was the one who requested the Kanan fic so long ago, and omg I absolutely LOVE how you wrote it!! Thank you so much for finishing it. And hot damn, it was good haha. I just want to say that I hope you’re doing well, and I hope you can keep writing! You’re one of my favorite writers on here, so I hope you can stay for a while at least :) thanks again for writing my Kanan request!

I’m so glad you enjoyed it! I was kind of worried you wouldn’t see it when I published it – thanks for still being here!

Yes, I’m doing much better than I have been in the last couple of years (it’s a long story), and I’m hoping to stick around for as long as I can. :) All of this new Star Wars content coming out more or less demands it!

[imaginethisgalaxy]

playback

Kanan Jarrus x Reader Word Count: 6,136. Good grief. Prompt: An anonymous request came in for #12 on this list (“We were pretending to be lovers but I’m not pretending anymore and I have to know if you feel the same way.”) with Kanan an entire lifetime ago, and now I’m finally posting it. No, I have nothing to say for myself, but I am sorry …? Warnings: NSFW. Very NSFW. There’s oral sex and penetrative sex (with a female reader – I couldn’t figure out how not to make this sound stilted and weird without specifying, I’m sorry! I’ll keep experimenting to get to that point someday). I had this image in my head that I absolutely could not get rid of, so I ran with it.

Please note for the record that my ride-or-die Kanera loyalty battled it out with the thirst for like, a solid year until I could finish this, if not longer. The thirst eventually won. … also I didn’t edit this because I don’t love myself enough.

You are not a spy. You have, in fact, never been a spy – which is what makes Kanan’s request that you accompany him on an extended mission all the more perplexing. It’s a simple enough objective: go to Spira, pose as an officer and his paramour on holiday, gather as much accurate intel as possible, and encourage anyone you can to believe as much false intel as you can reasonably drop into a conversation. Playback, they had called it, one of the oldest tactics in the espionage book. You still aren’t sure you’re the right person for the job, but Kanan could not and still will not be deterred, so you’ve long since given up trying. “You’re the right type,” he’d assured you. “You pay attention to details, you look plenty unassuming when you don’t have a blaster in hand, and in the right clothes you’ll look like the kind of girl who belongs in an officer’s club. I’ll be with you the whole time. You’ll be fine.” 

What you hadn’t counted on – what you’re still trying to deal with – is how intense an experience it is pretending to be someone you aren’t. In particular, pretending to be the object of Kanan’s only-slightly-overblown affection is more than you bargained for. His hands are on you constantly, right at home on the small of your back or against your waist. He has developed a habit of leaning in entirely too close to speak to you, letting his lips brush against your skin, encouraging you to laugh at whatever he says to throw off any onlookers. It works; in the past week no one has so much as batted an eye at the two of you, which seems impossible but somehow isn’t. You spend your days charming officers and their companions, tucked safely into Kanan’s side and generating the proper amount of misleading gossip about the unscrupulous rebels running amok in your home system.

By the time you realize that the smiles you’re letting him have when he has you pulled into his lap at a table full of Imperials are genuine, it’s far too late to turn back and go home, or to vehemently deny the warmth that blooms in your chest whenever he pays you attention. So you let him press absent kisses to your bare shoulders while swapping fabricated stories with your newfound “friends” and pretend that nothing is wrong … or, you try.

Keep reading

[imaginethisgalaxy]

hi friends!

As you can see, I’m a little bit back -- at least, I certainly hope so. If you’re still around, know that I appreciate you, because I know it’s been a very long time.

If you’re new, hello also! I’m going to do my best not to drop off the face of the planet again; the circumstances that made that happen before are no longer part of the equation, so I’m optimistic!

I do still take requests, but please know that (a) I might not do everything, as not all prompts inspire me to do something, and (b) it’s possible it’ll get filed away for later if it’s something I’m not confident in doing right now but hope to do later -- if you request off anon, I can tell you that, and I can publish it as an anonymous request in the future. Otherwise, I’ll ferret it away on a list of things I’m working up to in this rusty period and get to it when I can.

Also, if you’re requesting something from the prompt lists I’ve reblogged, please specify which. If you send a random number, I have no way to know where that belongs. (I might just end up guessing at it, or not doing it if I can’t figure out what it might be/nothing with that number produces an idea.)

It’s good to be back, and I hope to hear from you all soon! 💙

[imaginethisgalaxy]

playback

Kanan Jarrus x Reader Word Count: 6,136. Good grief. Prompt: An anonymous request came in for #12 on this list (“We were pretending to be lovers but I’m not pretending anymore and I have to know if you feel the same way.”) with Kanan an entire lifetime ago, and now I’m finally posting it. No, I have nothing to say for myself, but I am sorry ...? Warnings: NSFW. Very NSFW. There’s oral sex and penetrative sex (with a female reader -- I couldn’t figure out how not to make this sound stilted and weird without specifying, I’m sorry! I’ll keep experimenting to get to that point someday). I had this image in my head that I absolutely could not get rid of, so I ran with it.

Please note for the record that my ride-or-die Kanera loyalty battled it out with the thirst for like, a solid year until I could finish this, if not longer. The thirst eventually won. ... also I didn’t edit this because I don’t love myself enough.

You are not a spy. You have, in fact, never been a spy -- which is what makes Kanan’s request that you accompany him on an extended mission all the more perplexing. It’s a simple enough objective: go to Spira, pose as an officer and his paramour on holiday, gather as much accurate intel as possible, and encourage anyone you can to believe as much false intel as you can reasonably drop into a conversation. Playback, they had called it, one of the oldest tactics in the espionage book. You still aren’t sure you’re the right person for the job, but Kanan could not and still will not be deterred, so you’ve long since given up trying. “You’re the right type,” he’d assured you. “You pay attention to details, you look plenty unassuming when you don’t have a blaster in hand, and in the right clothes you’ll look like the kind of girl who belongs in an officer’s club. I’ll be with you the whole time. You’ll be fine.” 

What you hadn’t counted on -- what you’re still trying to deal with -- is how intense an experience it is pretending to be someone you aren’t. In particular, pretending to be the object of Kanan’s only-slightly-overblown affection is more than you bargained for. His hands are on you constantly, right at home on the small of your back or against your waist. He has developed a habit of leaning in entirely too close to speak to you, letting his lips brush against your skin, encouraging you to laugh at whatever he says to throw off any onlookers. It works; in the past week no one has so much as batted an eye at the two of you, which seems impossible but somehow isn’t. You spend your days charming officers and their companions, tucked safely into Kanan’s side and generating the proper amount of misleading gossip about the unscrupulous rebels running amok in your home system.

By the time you realize that the smiles you’re letting him have when he has you pulled into his lap at a table full of Imperials are genuine, it’s far too late to turn back and go home, or to vehemently deny the warmth that blooms in your chest whenever he pays you attention. So you let him press absent kisses to your bare shoulders while swapping fabricated stories with your newfound “friends” and pretend that nothing is wrong ... or, you try.

He is much more handsome than he has any right to be, in his fancy embroidered tunic. You know you are dressed specifically to match him in an expensive shimmersilk gown (totally devoid of a back, much to your near-constant discomfort -- the only time you feel comfortable in it is when the warmth of his hand skirts across the skin there, and then you are uncomfortable for other reasons) but you somehow feel like you clash with his apparently-effortless charm. It’s obvious to you that this isn’t what he’s normally what he’s like; you have also, after all, spent plenty of time holed up together in the suite you’ve managed to scam your way into drinking Old Janx Spirit this week. Even so, you manage to feel self-conscious about it anyway.

You know logically that you’ve had probably just a tad more Corellian wine than you really ought to have, but it would have been rude to refuse and you told yourself that you would be fine. It is not until Kanan ushers you up and guides you securely under his arm and against his side to walk you back to your shared suite that you realize exactly how intoxicated you are, leaning heavily into him. You're not that drunk -- you’re quite lucid, actually -- but if anyone asks you to run in your heels right now you’ll probably last all of four seconds before planting yourself face down on the plush hallway carpet. 

“That Vice-Admiral’s wife is trying to pickle me,” you groan quietly, and he laughs. You can feel the rumble of it in his chest against the side of your ribcage, and it’s somehow soothing.

“You’re doing better than me.” Kanan leans down a little after he presses the call button for the turbolift, so only the two of you can hear. “Last night when you wandered off with the other two to do whatever it is women need to be in packs for in the ‘fresher, the old man was trying to feed us all Whyren’s Reserve.”

“Stars,” you huff, pulling away from him a little to lean on the wall and wait. “I don’t know how you said no. I’d have done it. I felt like if I turned her down she’d get suspicious.”

“Who says I said no?” He grins down at you, and you narrow your eyes. It makes him laugh, moving to cage you against the wall with one arm and pull you into him with the other for the benefit of the other people lingering in the hall, and to discourage them from paying you too much attention. A thrill runs right up your spine when he leans in to speak next to your ear, close enough to the skin of your throat that you can feel the heat of his breath. “The Force can be helpful if you’re trying to keep your wits and someone’s trying to get rid of them.”

You forget, sometimes, that he’s a Jedi -- was a Jedi; the Jedi don’t exist the way they used to anymore. “Some of us don’t have that,” you murmur into his shoulder, swallowing hard when you feel him laugh gently against your skin before pulling back to look you in the eye.

“No, but you’ve got me. I won’t let you get in over your head.”

He has no idea that you already are in over your head. The thought threatens to suffocate you, or perhaps it’s his closeness that has you completely out of breath all of the sudden. When the turbolift announces its arrival you duck under his arm to dart inside, twisting out of his grip so quickly that he actually looks startled for the half-second you can still see his face. You brace a hand against the wall of the lift, the other pressed to the space just below where your ribcage joins in the front as if it will help you to breathe easier. 

His steps follow yours more closely than you would like, and you hear him pressing the button for your floor without a word to you. You don’t know if you want to cry or throw up or both -- you have been able to deal with his closeness for more than a week, but now it’s unbearable. Idly, you think perhaps it’s the wine. Maybe you’ve just had too much to drink, and it’s going to your head, ruining your concentration. It’s been so easy to pretend until tonight. You can hear him say your name, but it takes him another try to get a response out of you.

“I can’t,” you breathe, looking up at him and trying to get your composure back. Despite the effort, your voice shakes. “This is impossible. I can’t, I can’t.”

Kanan’s brow furrows, reaching out to try to touch your shoulder, but you angle yourself away, a hand still pressed against the wall of the lift like you think you might fall over. “What,” he tries, “what’s going on with you? What can’t you do?”

“This, Kanan, any of this. Please.”

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice quiet. Reaching out to put a hand on either one of your shoulders, he doesn’t let you squirm out of his grasp again. He’s trying to ground you, you realize, and you are equally embarrassed and relieved. “Listen to me ... whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as it seems. You’re doing fine. We wouldn’t still be here if you weren’t. Take a breath.”

You breathe as deeply as you can, feeling much too hot under the open concern in his face. You don’t know how to tell him that being himself is making things worse for you, that you feel like your skin is on fire where he’s touching you, that you -- that you love him, you think distantly, and it’s the first time you’ve really admitted that to yourself. Swallowing thickly to keep yourself from either being ill or bursting into tears, you shake your head a little to try to clear it. “I’m sorry,” you settle for saying, “I think I’ve just had too much to drink. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Kanan doesn’t look like he believes you, but he doesn’t press the issue. “Let’s just get back, and we can figure things out.” When the lift finally reaches your floor you let him usher you out and down the hall, stepping as carefully as you can in your heels while still looking natural. The moment the door to your suite is open you lift the hem of your dress and kick them off into the entry corner, deftly avoiding what you’re sure is going to be a long line of questions you aren’t prepared to answer by ducking into the refresher and locking the sliding door behind you.

Setting the water in the sink to run cold, you place your hands under the tap and wait as it slowly cools from room temperature. You only withdraw them when it’s so cold that it almost stings, shaking the excess off before pressing your cold hands to the sides of your neck. Tipping your head back, you look at the polished tiles of the ceiling and try not to let the great sigh that rushes from you sound too loud as it echoes off the hard surfaces all around you. This might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever managed to do. Bad enough that there’s a larger rebellion out there that’s floundering no thanks to your inability to commit to espionage without losing sight of your job long enough to fall in love with your partner -- you wince at the thought, leaning back against the frigid tile of the wall. It’s not as if you can very well help it, though, is it? Maybe you can -- Kanan likely can, you realize, and something settles like ice in your stomach with the realization that he can’t possibly feel the same way you do.

“This probably doesn’t help,” Kanan says, so close to the door it makes you jump, “but there isn’t really anywhere else for me to go. We’re going to have to talk about this eventually.” 

“There isn’t anything to talk about,” you reply, but you hear the wavering in your voice in the echo of the refresher and know he knows you’re lying. “It doesn’t matter.” That sounds a little bit more correct, but the soft thud of something against the door tells you it’s not working. 

Kanan sighs, and you can hear the frustration in the way it turns into your name even though the sound is muffled. “I told you I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you, and I meant it, but we have to work together on this. I can’t do anything for you if you don’t talk to me.”

You know he’s right. You hate that he’s right. Fighting the burning sensation in the back of your eyes, you check yourself briefly in the mirror before you disengage the lock and let the door slide open, only slightly startled to see him so close to where it once was that you’re almost sure you could have taken his nose off. You open your mouth to try to say something, anything, but manage only a very weak beginning to a statement that goes nowhere. Trying to brush past him proves futile, as the moment you pass him on your way to the larger part of your shared suite his hand closes around your arm -- not hard, but enough to stop you. 

“Whatever’s going on, you need to spill it. You’re my partner, you have to let me do my part in this.”

“There isn’t anything to do,” you insist again, and you can see him fighting the urge to roll his eyes at you. “It’s not on you, it’s on me. I didn’t know this was going to happen; if I did I would have fought you harder on this.”

“Hey, I’m still about eight steps behind you,” Kanan half-laughs. “I still don’t know what happened.” His hand retreats from your arm just long enough to move up to your shoulder, its mate coming up to join it. You start to find somewhere, anywhere else to look but at him, but feel his palms slide up to the sides of your neck, forcing you to look him in the eye. All at once the wind is out of your figurative sails, and there is nothing you can do about it.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, fighting the trembling in your legs with everything you have. “I’m so sorry, Kanan.” “What would you even need to be sorry for? Don’t be sorry,” he chides you, but gently enough that you know he isn’t upset. “I just need you to talk to me.”

His thumb skims the line of your jaw, a gentle back-and-forth that is too soothing for you to tell him to stop. The silence that hangs between you is much too long to be normal, and when he says your name to bring your attention back to him, your breath catches in your throat. It’s now or never, and he won’t drop it.

“This whole week … we were pretending to be lovers,” you begin carefully, swallowing hard under the gentle pressure of his hands. “But I’m not pretending anymore, and I have to know if you feel the same way.” You leave the bolo-ball in his court, as if you don’t know what the answer is already. He can’t possibly feel the same way. You feel the flexing of his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck as he processes it, prepare to pull yourself away when he rebuffs you and beg him to let you call to be extracted, but the rejection you’re expecting never comes.

“You can’t really think all of that was just for show,” he says finally, something like awe in his tone. You’re so taken aback by the revelation that you’re sure your eyebrows are actually in your hairline, but he doesn’t seem particularly fazed by it if they are. “Why do you think I asked you? It’d be easy to pretend with you.”

You aren’t even breathing, lips parted as if you want to say something, but there is too much to say and somehow you don’t have the words for it. Following his gaze as it drops to your mouth, you watch it linger there for a moment before he leans carefully in, lips hovering above yours. The breath you manage to pull in shakes, and you exhale his name, barely above a whisper. 

"Do you have any idea," Kanan questions, "how much I think about this?" His voice is low, harsh, like the control required not to close the scant distance between you is equal to the effort needed to move mountains. Your hands move up to pull gently at the front of his fancy tunic, to keep him from retreating, to wordlessly beg him to do it so you don’t have to. His forehead touches yours briefly, breathing in deeply enough that you can feel his chest fill with air beneath your hands. The seconds of silence between you stretch out for too long before the tension finally becomes too much. You are the one to move first, hands sliding up to the back of his neck to keep him right where he is and closing the gap between you. He yields immediately, slow and careful but showing no signs of retreating. His hands fall far enough to grip your waist, pulling you to him with care, calloused palms wandering the line of your torso as his tongue delves gently into the space your mouth has allowed it. 

As the pads of his fingers find the warmth of your bare back something in him shifts; you feel it in the way his kiss becomes more intense, less controlled. The room spins, and you have to let your hand move to grip him right back to keep from sliding right down to the floor. Kanan presses the tips of his fingers into the soft curve of your shoulderblade beneath your skin, the hand not occupied there pressed to the small of your back to hold the line of your body tight to his. You find the closure of his tunic and pull at it without thinking, managing to get it halfway open before you realize what you’ve done. It doesn’t seem to put him off at all; in fact his hands are dipping beneath the edges of that backless gown -- far enough that you can feel the goosebumps pressing up from your flesh, nipples pebbled painfully against the soft shimmersilk of that flimsy bodice.

You feel him pull away from you and you can hear yourself yourself make a displeased little noise about it, but he keeps you at arm’s length all the same, only a little breathless. “Tell me now if you don’t want me to.” Kanan watches you intently, as if searching for any sign of regret or unsureness. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Please,” you manage, fingertips grazing the line of his collarbone beneath the open fabric of his tunic as if to keep you grounded. Your head is still swimming, and full sentences are hard, but you know he won’t do it if you don’t say it. “I’ve been thinking about this for days. I want to. I need to.” He opens his mouth, and you know he’ll ask again, so you cut him off. “Kanan, please.”

Your partner needs no further convincing.There is almost a type of reverence in the way his hands travel up, slowly slipping the straps of your dress from your shoulders, fingertips grazing the too-hot surface of your skin as he coaxes it into little more than a puddle of shimmersilk on the floor. He allows the backs of his fingers to run down the length of your arm to your hands, closing his around yours in order to pull you closer and exhibiting what you’re sure is an incredible amount of self-control in not acknowledging your bare chest, eyes on yours. You don't put up a fight in the least, allowing yourself to be pulled in, letting him cross your joined hands behind your back as he leans in to seal a kiss over your mouth so utterly searing that you finally understand what people are talking about when they say someone steals their breath. 

The ache in your chest is unbearable, the tension that coils in the very pit of your stomach is making your head swim -- you might collapse under the sheer pressure of wanting this, wanting him. As soon as his fingers extricate themselves from yours so that he can run them along the expanse of your back, your own find their way into the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing him as close as he can get, seeking friction though you know you’ll find none in this position. It’s a thought that tears a frustrated whine from your throat even as he bites gently at your bottom lip. As if he knows, he gently slides a knee between your own, allowing you to part your own thighs and grind against his. The moan that sweet pressure coaxes from you is much louder than you mean it to be, but the way his fingers dig into your skin -- and the hard length of him, heavy and warm through the fabric of his pants -- tells you he enjoys it immensely. You know, distantly, that your hands are working his tunic the rest of the way off and that he isn’t fighting you on it, but it doesn’t really hit you that your bare skin is against his until you realize how warm he is against you, that you can feel his heart beating in his chest when he’s pressed this close. 

You know that he's lifted you, but spatial awareness is long gone -- it's something of a surprise when you feel yourself all but thrown onto the bed, its decorative pillows scattered and shoved to the floor as you spread your arms to catch yourself. You start to admonish him but you don’t get a chance; the idea fizzles out and is replaced by a long string of deeply obscene thoughts as you watch him lean over onto the bed, one knee perched on its edge, hands reaching for your hips. Leaning back until you are flat against the bedspread, you watch as he leans down and presses open-mouthed kisses to the flushed skin of your midsection, working his way down to the line where your hip bones sit. He nips at the skin just above the waistband of the flimsy garment covering your sex and glances up at you for any sign of apprehension before -- finding none -- hooking his fingers under the waistband and dragging the neutrally-colored scrap down your legs. You don’t see where he throws them and when his hands return to part your thighs you can’t find it in you to care.

When he grabs onto your legs where they meet your hips, you immediately know what’s coming, but gasp anyway at the sheer force with which he yanks you closer to the edge of the bed before kneeling between your knees. The line of kisses and careful bites he makes his way up your thigh with send fire blooming across the surface of your skin, and you only have to say his name once to get him to quit teasing you. You think that you’ve never been more grateful for anything in your life until a moment later, when his tongue slides between your folds. You arch off the bed so violently he has to hold you down by the hips and you stand thoroughly corrected. “You’re not going anywhere yet,” he practically purrs, and you swear it’s almost enough to make you come undone to hear him talk that way after a week of unresolved tension.

Leaning in for another taste, he avoids giving the one place you want him most any attention. He deftly maneuvers around the little bundle of nerves, applying just enough pressure with his tongue to tease at it, to stimulate it indirectly, but never there. It’s already driving you up a wall, fingernails scraping at the bedspread as you grip it in an attempt to stay still for him. Your hips rock into his ministrations almost by themselves, still held under control by the force of his hands. He is intent to take his time, it seems, all long languid strokes of his tongue against the smooth slickness of your inner folds. You want to beg him to give you what you want, but all that you manage is a gasping whine that sounds only vaguely like his name. It’s enough to spur a growl against your skin before he finally -- finally -- teases your swollen clit with his tongue, swirling, pressing, lapping with deliberate strokes. The cry that tears itself from your throat is much louder than you intend but he makes no move to quiet you. Instead, he reaches to the hand you have digging into the plush fabric of the bedspread to tangle your fingers together against your hip. It is reassuring for all of a moment before you are lost again, back as taut an arc as you can manage as he suckles the little pearl at the apex of your sex, teeth grazing.

You know your fingernails must be digging painfully into the flesh of his hand, but his pace is uninterrupted, so he must not care. Eyes fluttering shut, you try to resist the urge to clamp your thighs around Kanan's head to keep him right where you want him. Maybe it's the Force, or maybe he's just done this a lot -- you try not to dwell on it -- but you feel him pull away just long enough to toss your legs over his bare shoulders, as if he’s keen to stay there for the rest of the cycle. The outright moan you treat him to is pornographic enough that you reach up to cover your own mouth, but his hand closes firmly around your wrist, startling you slightly. “Nope,” he half-groans against the juncture of your leg and hip, “none of that. I want to hear everything.” There is a sort of squeak in the affirmative from you, which he must assume is agreement because he’s pressing a kiss to the joint before ducking down, his lips and tongue returning to their place between your thighs, dedicated to tasting every part of you that they can reach -- and then some, if he can manage it. It makes your legs shake in a way that amazes you, like you need to stretch but can't move. You can feel your breath quicken under his ministrations, short deep gasps for air as his hands skirt up your sides and down again. 

“Stars, Kanan,” you huff, more to the ceiling than to him as you squirm and arch against the bed. He groans against you, signaling that his name is clearly the way to go, and your insides lurch at the idea that you can make him fall apart, too. You take a shaking breath to say it again, but he chooses that moment to run his fingers along the warm, wet folds of your pussy before pressing slowly inside, and then you do say his name, just at the head of a breath that shakes with your whole body. 

He is careful, deliberate about the slow slide of his fingers in and out of you, and when you look down between your thighs again he is watching you more intently than you've ever been watched in your life. His pace quickens when he's satisfied that you've adjusted, pressing his tongue once more to your clit with languid licks. The first time he actually sucks at the sensitive organ, your hips buck up so hard he has to hold you down with a considerable amount of effort, but the hum he treats you with sends heat right to your core. He's enjoying this -- enjoying you -- and it's almost more than you can bear to think about. Your body twists as much as it can in his hold, and before you can say anything to him about it, your orgasm catches you by surprise, ripping through you with all of the savage force of a geomagnetic storm as you cry out, swearing more vividly than you intend. It only serves to spur him on, fingers moving to work you through your release as you clench around them.

You're almost relieved when your body finally loses some of its tension, boneless and gasping for air against the bedding as Kanan draws away from you, watching the rise and fall of your chest like it's the only thing in the world. When you finally feel like your limbs aren’t lead -- how long has it even been, how long has he been waiting for you to show him you’re okay? -- you reach out to him. He moves in immediately, pressing a line of open-mouthed kisses up your stomach and chest before, finally, he allows you to pull him against you and to your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue and, Maker help you, you might just crave it from now on. Your hand snakes between the two of you, down the lean muscle in his torso to the closure of his pants … and further, palming him through the fabric. The quiet groan of your name against your mouth is music to your ears, and you can’t stop the smile that turns the corners of your lips up. It doesn’t escape his notice.

“You’ve been holding out on me. How long have you been planning that move?” Kanan asks, amusement cutting the tightness in his voice only slightly.

“About a week,” you manage, only half a laugh as you squeeze the outline of his length gently for emphasis. He exhales hard, like he might have laughed if you hadn’t done it, grinding into your grip and dropping his head against your shoulder.

“You’re trying to kill me.” It earns him an actual laugh and some mercy as you move to unfasten his pants and push at the waist, coaxing them off his hips as much as you can without his assistance. He’s all too happy to help you along, shucking both pants and underwear in one move and dropping them somewhere out of sight. He’s on you again in seconds, pressed flush against you as his mouth slants over yours. It’s brief, and he moves quickly to your jawline, your throat, the valley between your breasts -- he bites at the flesh of one, a hand moving to knead and roll the other as his lips work their way to your nipple and suck gently, warm and wet for the brief moment before he pulls free and leaves the hardened peak to the now-chill air in the tiny space between you. “Do we need -- I mean, are you --” Oh. You hadn’t even thought about it.

Moving your hands up to the base of his skull, you tip his face to look at you. “I’m covered,” you say with a small smile. He opens his mouth for another question, but you stop him. “I trust you, Kanan.” You can actually, physically see him swallow as soon as you’ve said it, see the shift in the way he’s looking at you -- mostly like you’re about to be eaten alive in the best way, but with the same kind of affection he’s lavished on you in the sight of a dozen Imperial officers over the last week.

Something in your stomach does a somersault, and then you’re pulling him against you again, kissing him like you need it to survive. His hands work their way down between the two of you, rubbing gentle patterns into the juncture of your thighs to distribute the wetness there before hooking a hand under your leg to open you further and beginning the slow, careful press inside. There isn’t pain, not really -- just the sensation of being stretched around the girth of him -- but Kanan’s fingers trail soothingly along your thighs all the same, the constant steward of your comfort. You can feel the humid heat of his breath against your throat as he groans once he’s fully seated inside you, teeth dragging briefly against your collarbone as he waits for your go-ahead.

“Kanan,” you murmur finally, hands brushing the planes of his shoulders and roving upwards, into the roots of his hair, thumb pressed against the jumping of the pulse in his throat. “Please?”

Nearly immediately, he retreats and plunges back into you -- and again, and again with a focus that forces the air from your lungs. You’re distantly aware of your hips lifting from the plush bedding to meet his, the drag of his hips against yours almost overwhelming. You lose track of what’s happening quickly; there is the sharp pressure of his teeth against your throat, the wandering of his hands as he eventually moves his hands to your hips to hold you in place as his every thrust jostles you. 

His limbs slide against yours, sweat-slick and shaking as you wrap a leg around his hips to spur him on, to seek the friction of his hips against yours as you both race to release. It feels like every nerve ending is slowly burning under the surface, a tangled, undulating knot of sighs and open-mouthed kisses anywhere that can be reached. The cadence of his hips becomes erratic, the tension in your lower belly wound nearly as tight as it can go.

You hear your name, as if from far away, although you know his mouth is against your shoulder. It’s hard to focus, hot all over and so close to the edge, but you manage to eventually pull together the fragments of the sentence he’s trying to pull together in the haze of imminent orgasm. “I -- can I --”

Oh. “Yes,” you manage, “please, yes -- stars, Kanan --”

All at once, you feel him filling you, heat and pressure as his hips stutter against yours. You feel yourself grind against him unbidden, seeking that one last push over the edge and are rewarded with release at last, although less intense than the first. His breath catches as he presses his mouth against the meeting of your neck and shoulder, feeling you clench around him as he works the both of you through the last waves of pleasure. For a long moment, neither of you makes a move.

Kanan drops his forehead to your chest eventually, and you suddenly become aware of the hammering he must feel there before he presses an absent kiss to the space between your breasts. You take a deep breath, about to say something, before he very carefully extricates his limbs from yours, pulling out of you at last. The absence of him makes you gasp, overstimulated and frankly exhausted from both the physical exertion and the tension that immediately preceded it. Your eyes close as you try to will your heartbeat to slow, bringing an arm up to cover them more completely against the light of the room.

You’re halfway to blissfully dozing when you feel something warm between your legs and physically jump, startled right out of that reverie and sitting up on your elbows. Kanan laughs, reaching out to hold you gently in place as you finally focus in on his face, slightly alarmed. “I thought I lost you for a minute, there. It’s just me.” The hand not against your hips is holding a damp cloth, and your heart does a funny little turn at the idea that he had absolutely planned to take care of you whether you knew it or not.

“I was falling asleep,” you manage, brain still not quite caught up. 

“I noticed.” He nods slightly, as if to indicate the crux of your thighs. “I just figured you wouldn’t want to sleep like that.”  Your partner watches for any indication that you might stop him before -- exceedingly gently -- he finishes cleaning you up, the sticky remnants of release wiped away with minimal discomfort. You make no move to stop him, nor do you protest as he does away with the cloth and crawls his way back up the expanse of the bed to you.

Kanan’s arm wraps around you without preamble, and you find yourself smiling before you can catch yourself -- there is the question of what next, where are we, what are we doing, but it can wait. Turning carefully in his grip, you face him, and he dips his head to bring his mouth to yours without hesitation. It isn’t anywhere near as fierce or as lingering as when you’d finally come together, but your head swims all the same. He breaks off before you think to, allowing silence to settle over the both of you for what seems like a long time.

“You alright?”

“You’re asking me that now?” You prod at him teasingly, and he scoffs, but you’re both grinning, so he must not take it personally. “I’m alright.” A beat, and then you think better of it. “I’m great.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says casually, a hand moving up to brush against the bare curve of your side. You roll your eyes, and he pokes you much in the same manner as you had, coaxing a laugh from you. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Me too,” you admit, the sentiment tinged with sheepishness. “I was just …”

“I know,” Kanan murmurs. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

“I know,” you murmur in turn, shimmying to press the line of your body against his again and bury your face in the crook of his neck. You feel him shuffle only a little awkwardly against you before the bedding begins moving, finally settling over you both as he returns his hands to your skin, dropping a kiss to your shoulder right above the line of fabric. Your eyes fall closed at the sensation, and you can’t find the motivation to open them again, stifling a yawn before repeating yourself quietly. 

“I know.”

[imaginethisgalaxy]

With knitted brows and a terrible attempt to hide a lustful smirk Alex chuckled.

You raise a brow as you work at cleaning the blaster burn against his side, looking up at the lopsided grin he’s fixed you with, suddenly thankful for the divider between the two of you and the rest of the clinic; weeks of separation with both of you in the field typically makes the both of you eager to make up for lost time, but Alex is usually the one with better control. 

“I’m not even doing anything to you,” you scold halfheartedly, ignoring the heat creeping into your face and neck while you apply bacta to the area as gently as possible without the faintest clue of how close you two actually are to each other – it isn’t until you feel the scratch of his beard against your skin that you realize it’s you who started it, working much closer than is necessary, standing between his legs as he sits patiently on the exam table. 

“You’re always doing something to me,” Alex intones, so close to your ear you can feel the warmth of his breath and the shiver it sends down your spine, “usually because of what I’m thinking of doing to you – all the ways I get to make you fall apart for me later.”

Your knees actually threaten to buckle when his lips brush your neck; he presses a warm, slow kiss below your ear and you know he can feel your pulse quicken as your hand slides up to redirect him, to catch his lips with your own, the wordless I’ve missed you strung up in the scant space between your bodies. He steals your breath in the best way, and although you know he won’t do anything here – not in the relative openness of the clinic, not where people can hear you moan and keen and beg for him, only he gets to hear that – you know that as soon as you’re off duty, he’ll walk you through that long list of his.

[imaginethisgalaxy]

"Will I ever love again?" Boba muttered in defeat.

You laugh – at him, of course, as if it’s a joke – and something catches in his chest as he watches you move to gather up your coins, tossing the sabacc cards down on the table and casting your hands wide over the pot in one smooth motion. “Perhaps you should pick someone less likely to break your heart,” you offer with the least amount of pity he’s ever heard, “or take your credits.”

The scoff he replies with is not entirely without humor; he’s a pragmatic man and he knows both your priorities and his own have more to do with money than affection. He’ll settle for watching you charm everyone crowded around the small table in the corner where Jabba the Hutt holds court, aglow with the warmth that comes from just slightly too much ne’tra gal after a successful hunt – for now, anyway. 

“Cruel mistress,” he accuses, but the corners of his lips turn up just enough that you know the matter can be smoothed over with another round of drinks – the way he looks at you as the man to your left deals the next hand makes your pulse jump, so you turn away to order the ale you know he never refuses, and the dance continues.

[imaginethisgalaxy]

hemostasis

Alexsandr Kallus x Reader Word Count: 4,370. I may have gotten carried away. Prompt: @myeternalsin requested #40 from this list (”You know, you can stay if you want to.”) with Kallus! I hope this is to your liking, dear. ❤️ Warnings: Mentions of serious injury, and some debatably graphic descriptions of certain injuries. I don’t think it’s too bad, but that’s all relative of course. My total inability to calculate hyperspace travel time between Atollon and Yavin 4 should also be mentioned, because neither is in the tool I would usually use for this. So um … pretend it sounds totally reasonable and we’ll all be happy.

A modified freighter is nowhere for the huddled masses – even if those huddled masses are the few remaining fragments of a squadron that all but doesn’t exist. The limited passageways of the Ghost are lined with them, in various states of non-critical injury. They tend to their own wounds where they can, assist with the application of what bacta patches and bandages are available in places others can’t reach. Anyone with medical training and free hands – yourself included – is drifting along the limited path between them, checking in, exchanging bloodied scraps of cloth with clean ones, looking for whatever cannot be seen. There are concussions to monitor, simple fractures to set, and a dire need to boost morale by treating as much acute pain as possible as the ship hurtles through hyperspace in search of shelter from the Empire.

You are so focused on your task – and perhaps he is so focused on the idea of going unnoticed – that you almost don’t see him, set apart in the corner and staring at the grate in the floor as if willing it to open and swallow him up. You don’t have a name for him, not a real one, but you know him instantly by the Imperial body armor, by the muttering and not-very-subtle cutting of eyes to his corner of the passageway among the injured. It can be no one else in the galaxy. Fulcrum.

Keep reading

[imaginethisgalaxy]

hemostasis i

Alexsandr Kallus x Reader Word Count: 4,370. I may have gotten carried away. Prompt: @myeternalsin requested #40 from this list (”You know, you can stay if you want to.”) with Kallus! I hope this is to your liking, dear. ❤️ Warnings: Mentions of serious injury, and some debatably graphic descriptions of certain injuries. I don’t think it’s too bad, but that’s all relative of course. My total inability to calculate hyperspace travel time between Atollon and Yavin 4 should also be mentioned, because neither is in the tool I would usually use for this. So um … pretend it sounds totally reasonable and we’ll all be happy.

A modified freighter is nowhere for the huddled masses – even if those huddled masses are the few remaining fragments of a squadron that all but doesn’t exist. The limited passageways of the Ghost are lined with them, in various states of non-critical injury. They tend to their own wounds where they can, assist with the application of what bacta patches and bandages are available in places others can’t reach. Anyone with medical training and free hands – yourself included – is drifting along the limited path between them, checking in, exchanging bloodied scraps of cloth with clean ones, looking for whatever cannot be seen. There are concussions to monitor, simple fractures to set, and a dire need to boost morale by treating as much acute pain as possible as the ship hurtles through hyperspace in search of shelter from the Empire.

You are so focused on your task – and perhaps he is so focused on the idea of going unnoticed – that you almost don’t see him, set apart in the corner and staring at the grate in the floor as if willing it to open and swallow him up. You don’t have a name for him, not a real one, but you know him instantly by the Imperial body armor, by the muttering and not-very-subtle cutting of eyes to his corner of the passageway among the injured. It can be no one else in the galaxy. Fulcrum.

Pressing a glue stat to an open laceration on the forehead of a pilot, you murmur care instructions to her as you smooth her bangs down for her without really looking, thoroughly distracted now that you know he’s here.  Picking your way through the crowded hall is a challenge, but you manage, aware of the number of eyes watching your retreating back as you make your way down the passageway. It’s an effort not to turn and scold them all, but they’ve had enough already.

You don’t wait for him to look up when you finally reach his corner, tossing a couple of spent bacta patches into a nearby receptacle. “Has anyone taken a look at you yet?”

It isn’t until his head lifts to look at you, only mildly startled, that you see the bruising on his face. The shiner he’s sporting is particularly vivid, and likely painful – at least the split lip isn’t too severe. “I’m fine,” he demurs, and you look at him with about as much doubt as you can muster.

“You’re hunched over in a corner with a black eye, a split lip and probably more than one broken rib if your posture is anything to go on. ‘Fine’ is probably not the word I would use.” He hesitates, and it’s enough. You gesture to the side port, nodding in his direction. “Come on, it’ll even get you away from your new fan club.”

“I don’t know that I would call them that.” “You can call them whatever you want as long as you start walking, Fulcrum.” You watch him consider you before he starts moving toward the blast door you’ve indicated, ducking only slightly into the smaller cargo area before you follow him inside. You press the panel to shut it, to give you both privacy, because of course there are people watching.

Tossing your kit onto a nearby table, you gesture to the makeshift exam bench that’s been set up in the room so he can sit. “You’re going to need to get rid of your armor, and I’ll need the top of the uniform off to inspect your ribs. We’re low enough on stimpaks that we’re trying not to use them, but I can probably make you a lot more comfortable once I get a good look. Did they use anything on you that I should know about? Titroxinate,” you suggest, “Mangoriza maybe?”

“Nothing chemical,” your patient supplies, reaching carefully to begin shedding body armor. “Out of curiosity, do you just keep a bulleted list of the things Imperial Intelligence uses on people around here?”

“Well, it’s sort of my whole job to know that kind of thing.” You move to help him divest himself of the chestplate and wait for him to shed of the top of his uniform, taking it from him and setting it aside before digging through your limited supplies for an injectible health stim. “If I tried to give you a painkiller that interacted poorly with Mangoriza and they’d given you any, you’d be pretty cross with me.” By way of punctuating your point, you press the injector to his thigh and fire it. He barely seems to register it, but that’s likely for the best under the circumstances. “Seems like a waste of a medical education not to keep track.” “I could also be dead,” he offers, but not totally without humor.

You gave him a wry smile. “Well, that would be enough to make me cross.”

There’s a bit of a nod, by way of conceding the point. “You’re a doctor?”

“I am – well, I was. The Empire is in control of the governing bodies for that kind of thing, these days. For the most part, anyone accused of collusion with the rebels gets their license taken away.” You flash him something like a grin over your shoulder, rummaging in your kit for a jar of salve. “Now I’m just somebody who asks people to take their clothes off so it’s easier to poke at them.”

He lets out a huff you choose to assume was meant to be a laugh and your smile widens just a fraction before you turn back to your task, eventually producing a vacuum-sealed container of something that, once open, smells astringent and strongly herbal. “This should help with the more minor bruising, and take some of the pain out of it.” Stepping closer and leaning in a little, you apply it to the bruising around his eye as gently as you can with the pad of your finger. It’s a little too intimate in such close quarters, you’re sure, but it’s the best way to be certain it’s used properly. “It’s made with vincha, so it’ll sting for a couple of minutes and then it’ll be sort of numb. Better than the alternative.”

There is a noncommittal hum from somewhere in his chest as you dab delicately at the bruising on his face, trying to avoid using too much pressure on the worst of it. “I’m sorry you lost your license,” he murmurs, and it occurs to you that he’s trying to keep his face as still as possible. The idea of a polite spy for some reason threatens to break you out in a grin, but you manage not to give it away.

“Why?” You pull back from his face and wipe your fingers on the nearest clean cloth, screwing the cap back onto the salve. “You’re not the one who signed the order for it, are you?”

“No,” he replies, a little more seriously than you expect. “That wouldn’t have been my department. If anything, it would have –”

“I know all of this already, you know.” Your patient balks, looks something close to sheepish, but he doesn’t argue. “I trust our intel, thanks in part to you. … also, I still have the order somewhere, and it’s signed. Not by you. Don’t worry about it.”

“You are a remarkably trusting lot in general,” he says quietly.

“We’re really not. You’ve just been lucky.” The second sentence is a sigh, because you don’t really know how to prepare him for what’s coming. It occurs to you that he likely doesn’t need it, but it’s not in your nature not to try. “Not for nothing, but as good as most people are, there are plenty of people on this ship – and plenty where we’re going – who aren’t going to trust you for a while. Some of them probably won’t ever trust you. Fulcrum has done a lot for the larger rebellion, and believe me, people are grateful. But Fulcrum has never had a face before, and having that face suddenly turn out to be an Imperial officer is … well, it’s going to be hard to swallow.”

“But not for you.” You notice him scanning you with his eyes, sizing you up, and suddenly feel more scrutinized than you have in years. Imperial Intelligence, you think with not a small amount of respect, was probably the perfect fit for him if he makes everyone feel this way just by looking. “What I do isn’t based in trust,” you counter, “it’s based in ethics. If I don’t treat people who need it, no matter who they are, I’m no better than the people we’re fighting. Imperial medics would have left a Rebel for dead, or worse. You know that. Besides, it’s not as if you’re exactly the same as the rest of them. You chose to leave, chose to make a difference. That choice is open to everyone else the same as it is to you. It’s not without consequences, but it is.” Swallowing hard, you move to grab a penlight from your kit. “I do need to check you for a concussion just to be on the safe side, but it’s not stable enough in here for a bioscanner so we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Sit up as straight as you can, please.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this sort of thing,” he says, and you’re sure it’s at least partly to hide the wince straightening up on the exam bench produces.

“What I know is that nobody leaves the only thing they’ve ever known,” you breathe, not sure why you’re being so quiet with nobody else in the room, “unless the only thing they’ve ever known is a firaxa’s mouth. Soldier or not, Fulcrum or not –”

“Kallus,” he says, pulling back from you enough that he can look at your face instead of straight ahead and into the blinding pinpoint of light in your hand.

The quiet spell over the both of you effectively broken, your brows knit together briefly, looking back at him with your now-empty hand still lifted to its same position as if his jaw was still resting there. Your fingertips itch where his facial hair brushed them in passing, and you flex them gently to get rid of the sensation. “I’m sorry?”

“My name,” he tries again, but a little quieter. “It’s not Fulcrum. It’s Alexsander Kallus.”

You hear more than feel the clicking of the penlight’s power button as you turn it off, but it seems distant. “[Y/N],” you offer in return, more quietly than you intend. You know he’s heard you, you can see him studying your face as if to evaluate whether or not it suits you. Taking a breath, you find yourself trapped in his thrall for a moment, really looking the former Imperial agent in the eyes for the first time – honeyed golden-brown, like good Akivan liquor, you realize – and you almost feel compelled to shake your head to break out of the trance you’ve fallen into. "You’re supposed to be looking straight ahead, not at me, Alexsandr Kallus.”

“Right,” Kallus half-laughs, the grin he gives you only a little lopsided. You’re more distracted by it than you’d like.

“Well,” you begin, replacing your penlight, “you don’t follow instructions that well but you know your own name, your speech sounds normal and your pupils are doing what they’re meant to, so I don’t think you have much to worry about for now.” You motion for him to move his arm so that you can examine his ribs. “Of course, you’re still going to want to see someone who can look you over with a bioscanner when we get to Yavin 4.”

“You’ll be passing me off, then.”

“Not exactly true. I’m just giving you sound medical advice,” you laugh, very carefully touching your fingertips to the black and blue expanse of Kallus’ side. He winces when you apply pressure, but he doesn’t complain. You reach for a stethoscope and hook it around your neck, pressing a palm to his battered side as gingerly as possible. “You may get me again, you may not. I’m not the only doctor we have, and it all just depends. For all we know, you may not see me again for months.”

“That would be a shame,” Kallus breathes, and you glance up at him a little too quickly, eyebrows raised. “I’d hate to end up with the only doctor who doesn’t know what painkillers don’t mix with torture drugs,” he hastens to add, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding with a huff of a laugh.

“Everyone is perfectly capable. Their bedside manner is probably better too,” you joke, lifting the chestpiece of the stethoscope and pressing its diaphragm carefully to his skin. “Three deep breaths, deep as you can without hurting yourself too badly.”

“I somehow doubt that,” he manages as you place the eartips into your ears, but then he is obeying and you are too busy listening to the not-quite-right whooshing of air into his lungs to argue the point. The space of three breaths is just enough for you to collect yourself as you mull over the stilted noise his breathing makes under the skin, and part of you is grateful. Pulling the stethoscope away from the both of you and setting it aside, you clear your throat, turning to dig through one of the durasteel-sided cabinets to produce a bacta bulb before sliding it shut and moving back to the countertop to prepare it and a cleaning swab.

“You do have a bit of a collapsed lung in there,” you finally tell him, “but it’s not so bad that I don’t think it’ll take care of itself. If nothing else, once you get to the medbay on base, they’ll be able to fix you right up. Try not to do anything too strenuous until then and I’m sure you’ll be fine.” You hear him make a noise in the affirmative, but keep your back to him, instead watching him carefully in the dim reflection of the durasteel panels lining the wall. You note how utterly exhausted he looks now that no one is openly watching him. Not just physically – you are all drained in that regard, and how you will all manage to pull yourselves together remains to be seen – but there is a weight that seems precariously balanced above him, the broad slant of his bare shoulders enough to tell you that he’s not doing as well as he’d have anyone believe. He’s given up his whole life to try to make everyone else’s a bit better, and that’s no light task. You wonder what he’s risking, exactly – what the Empire will tell his family, if he has a family, or if they’ll tell his relatives anything at all.

Lowering your eyes and swallowing the lump you hadn’t noticed move into your throat, you turn to swab the area clean before affixing the bacta bulb to his side, hands gentle against the mottled purple galaxy blooming along where his ribcage lives. You murmur something apologetic about the cold before peeling the backing off the bacta bulb. “We don’t have bact-ade, so this will have to do until we get there. It won’t speed things up by much, but it’ll start to feel better and it’ll get things moving.” To his credit, he doesn’t flinch, although you can see the shallow breath he takes hitch when you press down to ensure that it’s secure.

“I don’t suppose breathing will hurt less,” Kallus muses, and you smile.

“A little. The bruising is part of it, the bacta really will help. I’ll brace it too; that’ll help you breathe a little deeper, which is a good thing. You’ll want to try to get in a few deep breaths every hour.” There is a pause as you calibrate the bulb, and you consider not saying what you’d like to, but think better of it. “You know,” you begin slowly, very deliberately not looking him in the eye as you monitor the device to be certain it’s working, “you can stay if you want to. In here, I mean.” He quirks a brow when you glance up for his reaction but says nothing, so you take in a deep breath, do your best to ignore the heat creeping into your face and start again. “I don’t think I’ll need to bring anyone back here for quite a while, and you could probably use a minute of quiet after … well, if you want it, it’s here. There’s a bin of scrubs around here somewhere too, if you want to change.”

You can feel the former Imperial’s eyes on you, like he’s evaluating your sincerity, and it’s an effort not to squirm. Eventually you have to give in to the impulse and turn to find a brace for his ribs, only to feel his hands close around your wrist firmly enough to stop you from crossing the gap between where he’s sitting and the supply crates shoved hastily in the corner. You feel yourself swallow hard before you turn to look at him, trying to keep your breath even. “You don’t need to pity me,” Kallus says, and your brows knit at the very idea, head tilted as if you’re struggling with the concept.

“I don’t pity you,” you fire back, twisting your wrist gently in his grip to coax him to let go of you. He withdraws his hand immediately, but nothing in the rest of his posture suggests he buys it. “I don’t think either one of us is better off than the other. Frankly, we’re all in the same sarlacc pit right about now, so there’s no point in pitying anyone. None of us is here to have a good time or feel superior to anyone, we’re here to fight, or in my case to keep other people fit enough to do it.” Turning back to your task, you lift the lid off the crate and set about finding a brace that will fit his torso. You can hear him gingerly sliding off the exam bench, but choose to ignore it.

“I didn’t mean it as a dig at you, you know.”

“I know.” You manage to unearth a brace in what you’re sure is the correct size, tearing the sterile packaging off of it and unrolling it as you turn back to where you assume he is without looking up. “That doesn’t make you any less –”

Kallus is much closer than you expect, and it makes you stop abruptly, blinking up at him and trying not to look too surprised. You’ve likely failed, as he’s less than an arm’s length from you, and you realize suddenly that if he wanted to, he could have you caged between the corner and himself, with nowhere to go. Experimentally, you shift under his gaze, and he makes no move to compensate for your change in position. “Wrong,” he says suddenly, and you do almost start that time. “I think the word you were looking for was ‘wrong.’ You’d have a point.”

“Yes,” you sigh, not sure if you’re relieved or embarrassed but that heat is creeping into your face again and you can’t do much about it anymore. “Compassion and pity aren’t the same thing; one means I want you to be well and the other comes with a superiority complex none of us can afford these days.”

“My apologies,” he finally concedes, and you wave him off.

“It’s not the worst thing a patient has ever said about me. There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re just going to have to learn to trust me a little, eventually.”

“You certainly are an improvement over a medical droid,” Kallus half-whispers, and you feel yourself slipping into a grin before you can stop yourself, lowering your eyes to unfasten the brace.

“Medical droids are useful, but who do you think programs them?” Motioning for him to raise his arms, you move around to secure the stiff fabric around his torso, careful not to press to hard against anything that might hurt. “We use them, but there’s usually a sentient doctor around except in a pinch. Droid programming can’t think creatively; if it can’t come up with a diagnosis based on what it already knows it’s going to make things much worse very quickly.”

Kallus hums something in acknowledgment, shifting slightly as you move around to his back, securing the fasteners and checking the tightness. “You were serious before,” he finally asks, “about me hiding out in here until Yavin 4?”

“I wouldn’t call it hiding out, and I wish you would if just to get a little rest, but I can’t exactly stop you if you decide not to take my advice. I’m a doctor, not a drill sergeant.”

“Not planning to tie me down, then?”

“Not unless you want me to,” you say, before you can stop yourself. You’re suddenly very happy to be behind him, because you can feel everything from your face to your chest flushing and you would like very much to be just slightly closer to the nearest black hole, so that you might throw yourself into it.

But he’s laughing, as much as a person can laugh with a fractured ribcage, and you’re so startled that your hands actually stop moving along the closures of his brace for a moment. “What was that you said before, [Y/N], about bedside manners?”

“Laughing at the person responsible for your well-being seems like a bad move,” you say, although you’re laughing in spite of yourself anyway. The way he says your name makes you a little too happy. “All I have to do is hit you in the side at the right angle and you’ll be a heap on the floor, you know.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he challenges, looking over his shoulder at you with enough amusement in his eyes that it makes something in your stomach do a somersault.

“My job is to keep you from dying, Kallus,” you clarify, moving away from him to find a shirt in his size among the spare sets of scrubs ferreted in with the other supplies. “There’s nothing in there about you having to enjoy the experience.”

“You definitely won’t be tying me down, then.” Your mouth actually falls open, and he’s laughing again, turning to catch the scrub top you throw at him with an almost infuriating ease. “I will make you a deal, however.”

You cross your arms over your chest, considering him as he carefully maneuvers himself into the shirt. “I can’t imagine what either of us has to bargain with,” you finally admit, “or over what.”

“I’ll stay put like a good patient,” he starts, pausing to pop his head through the collar of the top and ignoring the hair falling into his eyes, “and I won’t tell anyone you’ve threatened me with bondage, but only if you stay too. The company seems better than staring at the wall. Deal?”

There is an incredulous moment where you can’t decide if he’s serious, but the way he’s looking at you – expectant and almost challenging – tells you he is, and it’s enough. Crossing the short distance between the two of you, you reach up to brush the hair back out of his face, taking one deep breath before you answer. “Deal, I suppose.” Backing up to the countertop, you hoist yourself onto it, settling comfortably with your legs hanging over the edge. You watch him watch you get comfortable before he takes up residence beside you, leaning back against the hard surface you’ve claimed rather than joining you on top of it. “I am going to have to do my job at some point, you know.”

“I’m not going to stop you from tying anyone else down,” Kallus teases, and you elbow him in the shoulder with just enough force to jostle him. “You could also talk me through a thing or two, and I could make myself useful.”

“You’ve already been very helpful to all of us,” you say, and you find that you really do mean it. “Besides, what I have left amounts to ‘apply bacta or glue stat, instruct not to pick at it, rinse and repeat.’ Tedious more than difficult. If you want to stick things to people, though, be my guest.” He murmurs something agreeable, and strangely companionable silence falls over the both of you for a while. He is the first to break it.

“Where are you from?” Kallus asks finally, looking up at you on your durasteel perch.

“Chandrila,” you answer readily, tipping your head to look down at him with a small smile. “You sound like you’re from Coruscant.”

“Is it really that obvious?”

You stifle a laugh. “Only to people who aren’t from Coruscant.”

The hours that follow are a game of Twenty Questions that somehow becomes Two Hundred Questions, but neither of you seems to mind. By the time the Ghost reaches Yavin 4 and you begin helping to unload and direct the walking wounded, he has ruined six glue stats but is an extra pair of hands you didn’t know you needed all the same, and you are grateful. People are scowling less – the lack of Imperial rank plate likely helps – and as you pass among people alongside him you realize that he’s already acclimating. You have just enough time to wonder at how much better he looks in scrubs than an Imperial uniform before you lose one another in the chaos; he has to be debriefed, you realize, and you have plenty to contend with in the base’s busy medical center that demands your immediate attention.

It isn’t until the next day, when you pull back the curtain on a patient who had specifically asked for you while complaining of chest pain with shortness of breath to find him sitting patiently on the gurney and laugh so hard you have to close the curtain again, that it occurs to you that you might – just perhaps – be a little smitten.

[imaginethisgalaxy]

Is there any certain character you'd really like to write for?

That’s a long list, my little grey friend! Although I don’t see anything for Kallus (Rebels) out there which seems like a crying shame to me personally (that strand of hair was very expensive to animate, you guys! 😂 ), and from what I understand from others the Fetts don’t get a lot of love either. I think generally speaking, although I’ll write for just about any character, I’d like to see requests from people for characters who don’t have a ton of material out there for them. I’m here to help the lonely underserved thirsters of the community, haha.

[imaginethisgalaxy]

Angst/Fluff Prompt List Part 2

The first one was a big hit, so I hope you’re ready for a second one! These can work with ANY fandom! Reblog if you wish! (Please give credit, to where credit is due <3)!

“I need you.”

“You’re family.”

“I care about you.”

“Can I join you.”

“You made your choice.”

“This isn’t fair!”

“How could you do this?”

“Do you hate me?”

“I could never leave you behind.”

“Come with me.”

“That’s sweet.”

“You look great.”

“Where are you going?”

“That’s new.”

“Let me help you.”

“Drop the attitude.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve got you.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t seem like yourself tonight.”

“Do you like it?”

“You smell nice.”

“They didn’t deserve you.”

“I trust you, do you trust me?”

“Karma is a bitch.”

“What the hell?”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I hope your day gets better.”

“I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“How do I look?”

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

“What is this about?”

“You look like hell.”

“I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“You know, you can stay if you want to.”

“I’m not pissed, I’m hurt.”

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“I almost feel bad for you.”

“What you did was stupid.”

“No.  You listen to me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I know you’re scared.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You’re not helping.”

“It’s not safe here.”

“You should leave.”

“Everything is fine.”

“I’ll keep you safe.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Just go away.”

“You don’t have to act like you’re okay.”

“I’m only here to help.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“I’m done.”

“You think that this is easy for me?”

“I hate seeing you like this.”

“You make me so mad.”

“I brought you dinner.”

“Say what?”

“You’ll be fine.”

“You’ve got me on your side.”

“I don’t like you…. I love you.”

“I don’t want you… I need you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s okay to cry.”

“I can tell you’re lying.”

“You’re in danger.”

“You deserve better.”

“You’ve changed.”

“I think I’m in trouble.”

“You always find a way to surprise me.”

“You did what you had to do.”

“You have no idea.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“This is just great.”

“You’re here late.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“It’s just you and me.”

“I’m just looking out for you.”

“I never meant to fall in love with you, I just did.”

“Calm down.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh come on.”

“No one is perfect.”

“You’ve been quiet.”

“What did you just say?”

“I’ll always be there for you.”

“Fair enough.”

“When you fall, I’ll always be right there to catch you.”

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I hope you’re happy.”

“You’re the only person I wanted to be with tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“Regardless of what they think, I know you’re an amazing person.”

“Shhh…  You need to be quiet.”

“Fuck you!”

“You don’t even know me.”

[imaginethisgalaxy]

fictional kiss things that end me

being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward

one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other

pressing their foreheads together while kissing

speaking normally, then after the kiss their voice is hoarse

guys furrowing their brow when kissing passionately

staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

running their thumb over the other’s lips

when they lean forward a fraction as if to kiss the other person, then realize they shouldn’t and pull back to stop themselves

ripping the other away - “no we shouldn’t” - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close

one sliding their hand into the other’s hair slowly

their entire body freezing for a second when their love kisses them

accidentally being forced inches apart from each other, staring at each other’s lips, and just before they kiss someone pulls them back apart

when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more

a hoarse whisper “kiss me”

then licks their lips and says “please”

[imaginethisgalaxy]

important ship tropes:

fake dating

SECRET dating

being locked in a room or trapped in a small space

huDDLING FOR WARMTH

BEING ON THE BRINK OF ADMITTING THEIR FEELINGS FOR EACH OTHER BUT THEN GETTING INTERRUPTED

finishing each other’s sentences, KNOWING WHAT THE OTHER IS ABOUT TO SAY

tou chi NG!!!! FOr eheA DS!!!!!!11!!

wearing each other’s clothes

doing that thing where they accidentally get real close and, like, stare meaningfully at each other for a few seconds too long

channeling the inner romcom and having an epiphany about how much they care about each other and RACING TO CONFESS THEIR LOVE

fucking. Now or Never Kiss

HEIGHT DIFFERENCES

defending each other to scathing tertiary or otherwise minor characters but ONLY WHEN THE OTHER ISN’T AROUND

reincarnation or time loop or OOOOH TIME TRAVEL SCENARIOS

dramatically saving each other from certain death or barely surviving something that almost makes the other break down and just smirking wearily and mumbling flippant smartass remarks to HIDE THE DEPTH OF THEIR FEELINGS

undercover as lovers, the classic

ALMOST KISSING. like getting so close that they start to close their eyes and hold their breath and then SOMETHING HAPPENS and they jump apart, that is MORE VALUABLE THAN ANY ACTUAL KISSING

casually sitting on each other’s laps during ensemble cast conversations or scenes

did i mention F AKE DATinG

[imaginethisgalaxy]

types of kisses (part i)

wake up kisses pressed gently to the column of A’s neck or the underside of B’s jaw.

morning kisses; gentle and lazy, humming in contentment, limbs still tangled together, hands wandering over soft exposed skin.

stay in bed kisses, mischievous and deep, punctuating flirtatiously whispered bargaining words.

come back to bed kisses left on A’s neck and shoulder, unhurried and tender, with arms wrapped around A’s waist.

rushed late for work kisses, a flash of heat before hurrying out the door.

tender kisses when one brings home flowers for the other.

sticky ice cream kisses, sitting on a bench in the park and laughing against each other’s lips.

cheek kisses that leave red lipstick stains.

kisses absently left on the backs of hands, fingers entwined in silent comfort.

joyful kisses peppered across foreheads and cheeks between scattered giggles.

comforting kisses pressed to tear-stained cheeks between whispered words of reassurance and concern.

heated kisses with gasps in between, hands tugging at clothes and exploring skin, bodies pressed close. giving in.

long, slow kisses in the afterglow, fingers woven through hair and hearts beating in unison.

soft goodnight kisses exchanged on lamp-lit doorsteps on chilly autumn evenings.

a single loving kiss left on the other’s forehead when they fall asleep snuggled close together.